Catch Me (24 page)

I guess life has made sure that this trip should test me in every way imaginable. Since he doesn’t reply with words, I pick up the extra flute and pour a drink for him, handing it to him as I pick up my own. I sit down on the couch beside him, but make sure to leave room between us. When he takes a sip and flips the channel, I let out a breath, realizing that I’m totally overanalyzing the situation.

“Let’s go out tonight,” he says after a moment.

“Where?” I ask, doing a mental catalog of the clothes in my suitcase.

Shea shrugs, his eyes darting from the TV to me. “Anywhere. Out. They’re throwing a little party in the lounge downstairs, but we can ditch it and go wherever you want.”

“Who’s hosting the party?” I ask, furrowing my eyebrows.

“Some promoters,” he replies flippantly.

My eyes widen. “Did they pay you already?”

His eyes shoot heavenward. “BK, they always pay me, doesn’t mean I have to stay the entire night.”

This is the kind of shit that gets celebrities in trouble, the careless way they seem to think that the world caters to them, and they can do whatever the hell they want even if they are being paid and expected to do whatever they agreed upon.

“How many hours are you supposed to be there?” I ask, unwilling to let it go. I know that if Shea starts causing trouble before his tour even starts, the label is going to have a mess to clean up afterward.

“Two hours. God, I hate that you’re the boss’s daughter,” he mutters under his breath, looking back at the TV.

“And I hate that you’re so unprofessional sometimes, but you don’t see me complaining,” I retort.

He shifts his body to face me, folding his left leg on the seat between us. “Do you wanna go to that shit? Or do you want me to ditch it and take you somewhere else? I want to make you feel comfortable since I dragged you over here to begin with. Excuse me for trying to be a good friend over here,” he says seriously, emphasizing the word
friend
in a way that makes me clamp my teeth together. The thing about Shea is that the last time we hooked up wasn’t that long ago, even if it was a mistake on my part. He has a way of making you feel like you’re not just a pastime to him, like you’re more, and because we’re friends and we talk, sometimes the lines blur. Maybe it’s true what they say: men and women can’t just be friends. I really want to prove that theory wrong, though. I heard somewhere, probably on Elvis Duran or something, since that’s my source of useful information, that men and women can be friends successfully if they are each in a stable relationship. Since I wouldn’t know what a stable relationship was if it hit me in the face and Shea wouldn’t know how to keep his dick in his pants long enough to even learn the definition of the word relationship, I think we’re pretty doomed.

Still, I refuse to get caught up in his little games. I know the smile spreading on his face is his weapon of choice against my libido, and I refuse to let myself sink enough to acknowledge it. I’ve also had a lot of time to reflect on the kind of friendship we have, and I know it wasn’t good for me then, and it’s probably worse for me now, but I’ll be damned if I leave him behind. The truth is, I tried for a little while not to speak to him and it worked, but then I kept running into him everywhere.

The business isn’t that big. Everybody knows somebody that knows somebody, so when I realized that we were bound to continue to run into each other, I gave up trying to push him away. And the thing is, he’s a good friend when he’s not trying to hook up with me. Thankfully he hasn’t tried again after our last hurrah when I made it clear that it couldn’t happen again. He’s hazardous to me, the things he’s into can make me crumble—we both know that—so he’s accepted his place in my life. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s a guy that usually gets what he wants and sometimes he looks at me like I’m exactly that.

Standing up, I grab the notepad with Nick’s number on it and take my empty glass to the sink. “Let’s just go to the party in the lounge,” I say over my shoulder. “I’ll be ready at nine.”

Shea stands, leaving his empty glass on the coffee table. “You wanna go to the store with me so I can get new shoes?”

I look into his eyes for a moment and see the sincerity of a true friend and the loneliness of a lost boy. I don’t hesitate anymore. I grab my large purse and place it on my forearm before following him out. We spend a couple of hours shopping because Shea can’t just buy one thing, he has to buy the shoes and matching belt and sunglasses that look good with the shoes and matching belt. I’m not one to talk, since I left the store with a new purse. But only because I didn’t have that style and I really, really liked it.

“You talked to the Wicked Witch lately?” Shea asks as we stroll down Fillmore Street. There are three bodyguards around us now, blocking us from the views of most of the cameras that follow. It’s times like these that I’m glad Shea isn’t tall, because he can sort of hide out within the fort of the bodyguards.

“Nope,” I reply, not needing to elaborate the many reasons I haven’t spoken to my mother. Shea knows better than anybody how much I’ve struggled with her in the past. “You talk to yours?” Our mothers are one and the same. His is nicer to him than mine is, but nicer means that instead of pointing out certain things she doesn’t like about him, she ignores him entirely. Unless she wants to go to an event or she needs a new car, then Maria is all over her son. It’s sickening to witness.

“Eh … a couple of weeks ago,” he says, scratching his head in thought.

We eat lunch in a little Asian restaurant and head back to the hotel so that he can drop me off.

“I have interviews with two radio stations, then I’ll be back. I’ll pick you up at nine,” Shea says as I exit the car in the back of the hotel. I get my bags and wave him off, promising that I’ll be ready. When I get back to my room, I’m a little disheartened to find that it’s still empty. Even though I didn’t call Nick, a part of me hoped he would come back. The stupid, wrong, forever dreamer part of me, that is.

I’m sitting in the living room, waiting for Shea, noticing that the clock on the wall says it’s 9:28. I figured he would be late because he’s never on time, not that I usually am, but I’m never usually this bored either. I’ve already listened to thirty demos, changed my clothes three times, and checked my hair and makeup seven times—this will be the eighth time I get up and go to the bathroom to look at myself. I’m wearing a short black dress and killer black wedges that I had to practice walking in a couple of times before tonight. They have a very Lady Gaga look to them, with the heel curved inward, which I love. My hair is down, as usual, because I never really know what to do with it, and my makeup looks flawless, which is good because if I hadn’t learned anything after the countless makeup classes my mother paid for me to go to, she would have a coronary. She always calls when she sees photos of me in magazines and we “discuss my makeup, hair, and outfit” and “where I went wrong” or “what I did right.” It’s a favorite pastime of hers, discussing the way I look.

At ten o’clock, I get tired of waiting and call Shea’s cell phone. He answers on the fourth ring.

“BK, I’m going up there now. Fuck. I completely forgot to pick you up! Shit!” he curses loudly, speaking quickly into the line.

I breathe, not letting disappointment consume me. I try not to remind myself that this is the same guy who offered not to go to this party but to take me somewhere else to cater to me. I try not to remind myself of the countless times he’s let me down.

“It’s fine. I’ll meet you down there,” I say, instead.

“You sure?” he asks.

I bite my tongue. “Positive,” I say, smiling so that he can hear it. I hope he hears the fakeness of it through the line.

“Awesome. See you here. You’re my date,” he says.

I laugh because I can’t stand it, and I hang up the phone as I head out of my room. I figure that Leo and Fern will be down there, so I’ll have them to talk to anyway, and I don’t want to stay holed in my room the entire night. I spot Darius when I get to the lounge, and he ushers me in, taking me to where Shea is sitting with two girls on either side of him. He’s wearing a black button down shirt and jeans, his hair a crazy mess as usual. He’s talking to one of the girls, the blonde one wearing a red dress, when he spots me and his eyes bulge out of their sockets for a second. I internally pat myself on the back and let myself smile, though it’s not a smug smile, it’s the fake one I reserve for Shea when I catch him off guard.

“Damn, BK,” Shea says, standing up and giving me his hand, which I don’t take.

“Thanks,” I say, cutting off his compliments. I don’t want him to tell me that I look hot or fine or whatever other compliment he wants to throw at me right now. I’m not in the mood for it. “Where’s Leo?” I ask, looking around.

Shea stands beside me and puts his arm around my shoulder. The wedges I’m wearing make us stand at the same height. I may even be a drop taller than him. “I’m so sorry I forgot to get you. They kept calling me, so I came down thinking I would have enough time to go back up, but then I got caught up,” he explains, his voice soft and cajoling.

I nod in understanding, knowing exactly what he got caught up in. “It’s totally fine,” I say. “I’m going to get a drink and see if I spot Leo,” I respond, shrugging away from his hold.

“All right, I’ll be here,” he says, walking back to his groupies. They’re faceless to me. I stopped looking at the girls around him a long time ago. They always have the same “He’s taking me home tonight” look in their eyes regardless of the state they’re in.

Making my way down the steps, I walk to the bar, which is lit up with a nice blue glow around it. I squeeze between two empty stools and ask for a rum and coke when I get the attention of the bartender. I smell Nick standing beside me before I turn to acknowledge him. It doesn’t even cross my mind that it could be another man wearing his cologne because the pounding of my heart tells me it’s him.

“Rum and coke, huh?” he asks before I figure out what to say to him. He leans in closer, his chest brushing against the back of my arm and I close my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I spit out while I still have the courage to apologize, hoping he accepts it without me having to turn around and look into his eyes as I do it.

His hand wraps around my forearm and he pivots my body so that we’re facing each other. My senses are hyperaware of him, of his smell, of the tension that’s radiating off of him as he stares at me … while I stare at nothing under my eyelids.

“Why are you sorry?” he asks, his voice low and in my ear now. I intake as much breath as I can without feeling lightheaded, which is pointless because the only thing I breathe in is Nick and he makes me feel breathless.

Slowly, I open my eyes and find his for a second before quickly dropping my gaze. Instead of looking at his face, my eyes trail down his body and back up. He’s wearing jeans and a striped button down shirt that he has rolled up to expose his strong forearms. His hair is styled into his signature faux hawk and I can see a shadow of stubble over his jaw that makes me want to extend my hand and trace it. His eyes look amazing under the glowing blue light of the bar, almost matching the color. The way he’s looking at me so intently, I almost don’t hear the bartender tell me my drink is beside me.

“I’m sorry I slapped you,” I say looking into Nick’s eyes, and surprisingly, I feel lighter after saying the words this way.

He nods, accepting my apology. “You here with Shea?” he asks, his words coming out tense.

I let out a laugh. “Does it look like I’m here with Shea?” I ask, raising an eyebrow and knowing that Nick, who towers over me even in these heels, can see what Shea is up to behind me. He glances over me, probably confirming what I’m saying before pinning me with his gaze again.

“So you’re here alone?” Nick asks, seemingly needing a confirmation.

“Nick, did you get my drink already?” a female voice to my left asks. I’m still looking at Nick, whose face shows no signs of anything at the question. I tell myself that it’s because he has nothing to hide, he’s with Stephanie—I know this. When I look at the girl beside him, I notice that she’s a redhead, not the Stephanie girl I saw him with before. He did say that she wasn’t his girlfriend, but goodness, this is like Shea all over again. Because I am really trying not to be that girl—the one that’s always second place to everybody—I pick up my drink and put a bill down on the bar before walking away. Nick doesn’t come after me, which tells me everything I need to know, and I don’t turn around to see what he’s doing because I don’t need to see him with another woman. Actually, I would rather rip my eyes out than have to see him with another woman.

My heart is still beating out of my chest when I reach Shea’s table. He’s narrowed down his two groupies to one, it seems, because only the girl in the red dress remains.

“What’d you get?” he asks as I take a seat beside him.

“Rum and coke,” I respond, noticing the way his bottle of vodka is almost out already.

“I would’ve offered to get you a bottle, but I know how you get about sharing drinks,” he says.

Again, I bite my tongue. I wonder if he remembers the time they slipped something in our drinks at a club and had us hallucinating well into the next night. After that experience, I decided that if I ever stepped foot in a club or lounge again, I would buy my own drinks. This night is proving to be grating my every last nerve. I decide that I’m going to have this drink and call it a night. Nick walks up the stairs soon after, the redhead trailing closely behind him. I wish I could fight the way my heart soars around him. I wish I could tell him to stop looking at me with those eyes that tell me he wants me, especially when he’s with somebody. And more than anything, I wish I could just forget about him and his lying ways.